


correct your words, forget my thoughts

by DrowningInStarlight



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Families of Choice, Fluff, Multi, Mutual Pining, Unconventional Families, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningInStarlight/pseuds/DrowningInStarlight
Summary: The only reason they aren't a garage band is because Hamid's parents let them use their attic.Or, a band au.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Sasha Racket & Zolf Smith, Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Zolf Smith
Comments: 25
Kudos: 85





	correct your words, forget my thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> title from golden veins by two door cinema club.

_Zolf writes the words, Hamid sings them. That's how it's always been, ever since they met, and it's been long enough that Zolf can barely remember a time that Hamid wasn't there, smiling and chatting and falling asleep on Zolf's shoulder when they're travelling back from a show. Zolf writes the words, and Hamid sings them, because Hamid is good at making things beautiful and he knows the part of Zolf that writes the words sometimes isn't beautiful, but he listens anyway, humming snatches of melody. He listens as Zolf stumbles over reading them, lets his three dots bounce and bounce as he carefully reads the messy texts Zolf sends him at 2am. (Hamid is beautiful. Hamid is beautiful and Zolf is in love with him, and those two facts are unconnected but both ringing with the same objective truth.)_

—— 

The only reason they aren't a garage band is because Hamid's parents let them use their attic. The Al-Tahans had been in the process of redoing it when Saira and Aziza had moved out within two months of each other, so they hadn’t really needed the extra space anymore. It has a proper staircase (which is lucky, ladders are often a bit of a struggle for Zolf) but other than that, it’s almost entirely bare. The roof is low at the edges, but neither Hamid, Zolf or Sasha are particularly tall, so it's not like that matters too much. It's dark, too, the little windows low to the bare wood floor, lending practice sessions a weird, dreamy quality, all noise and warmth and dusty brown light.

Hamid's singing now. Zolf knows the song, but he can't place the name. An old My Chemical Romance song, he suspects, judging by the way Sasha's messily playing along with Zolf's guitar.M _"You are never coming home, never coming home,"_ Hamid sings softly, and the dust dances in the fading light. His hands are clasped in his lap. 

Hamid doesn’t look the part of the lead singer of a band that are trying their hardest to be punk rock. Sasha has the studded leather jacket, the spiked up hair. Zolf has the tattoos scattered across his skin. Hamid’s aesthetic is smarter, fancier, not quite what you’d expect. Zolf thinks he revels in that, uses people’s expectations against them, for Hamid is all the more striking for his eyeliner and suits in bold, contrasting colours. He gets the same look in his eyes as Zolf and Sasha when they play together, the matching anger, matching fear. Clinging to the lifeline that is each other and the music. 

Right now, though, Hamid looks calm. At peace. His hands are still clasped quietly in his lap as he sings, his eyes almost shut. Sasha’s rocking back and forth on her toes, fingers tight around the guitar in her hands. She’s never been allowed any kind of music at home, so she’s learnt to play pretty much anything she can get her hands on. She’s just in her shirt, her jacket dumped on the keyboard in the corner, and Zolf knows she only takes it off when she feels safe. (He knows that isn’t often.) 

Hamid finishes the song on a lingering note, and then breaks into a laugh. Zolf’s about to ask Sasha for his guitar back so they can play something else, when there’s a stuttering pop from above them. The light flickers out. It’s not even five o'clock, but autumn is relentless and night has fallen fast. It’s suddenly dark enough to take Zolf’s breath away. 

“The bulb’s gone _again?”_ Hamid complains. 

“Think something’s wrong with your electrics, mate,” Sasha says. 

Hamid sighs. “Probably. Let me just… ouch, that’s a chair…” 

Zolf leans over and nudges the door open. The light from the hallway streams in, and Hamid firmly disentangles himself from the chair. “There are spare bulbs downstairs, won’t be a moment.” 

He unthinkingly closes the door behind him, plunging Zolf and Sasha back into darkness. They sit there, unmoving. 

“Idiot,” Sasha says, fondly. 

“Yeah,” Zolf agrees, fonder still. They’ve known Hamid a long time, they’re allowed. 

“Sorry for nicking your guitar.” 

“No problem. You know you’re always welcome.” 

“Thanks, boss.” 

“I still don’t understand why you call me that.” 

Zolf can only see her silhouette against the window, but her shrug is audible anyway. “‘S your band.” 

“Wouldn’t be a band without you guys,” he counters. “I just write some stuff and play the guitar a bit.” 

“Like that isn’t most of what we are,” she says. “You write and play, Hamid sings, I do whatever, and there we go.” 

“The London Rangers are complete,” Zolf jokes, and he can practically feel the look Sasha gives him. 

“We’re not calling ourselves the fucking _London Rangers,_ Zolf,” Sasha protests. “Hamid’s place isn’t even technically in London, I don’t think.” 

“Fine, fine,” Zolf concedes. “We’ll work on it.” 

Sasha moves away from the window, and light streams back in suddenly as she pushes the door open a crack. “Think Hamid’s ever gonna come back, then?” she says, even though it's barely been three minutes. 

“Hope so,” Zolf says. “If we don’t have a lead singer _I_ might be forced to take over, don’t think anyone would want that.” 

“That’s not true!” Hamid calls from the doorway, announced by the light streaming back into the room. He has a variety of different light bulb boxes balanced in his arms. “You have a lovely voice, Zolf.” 

Zolf scoffs quietly. “You don’t need to coddle me, Hamid.” 

“I’m not—” Hamid begins, he’s distracted by Sasha trying to take some of the light bulbs off him. “Careful, don’t drop them—”

—— 

Light bulb crisis averted, Sasha has gone back to messing around with the instruments. The keyboard is Aziza’s, technically, but she hadn’t taken it with her when she moved out, so Hamid had eagerly appropriated it. The drums are pieced together from bits and bobs they’d bought from Bi Ming’s music shop, where Sasha works on a Saturday. Zolf’s guitar had been a birthday present from Feryn three years ago, for his sixteenth. It was a gift that Zolf very much appreciated, as his old one would give him electric shocks if he plugged it in wrong. 

Sasha plays a chord on the keyboard. "I don't understand why we're holding auditions, boss," she says. "We already know who we want." 

Hamid is up on the stool, trying out different light bulbs in the socket hanging from the ceiling. He exchanges a glance with Zolf. (The thing is, Sasha's right. There was never any question of who the new members were going to be. But it's impossible to miss the way Sasha always looks cold and dull in the winter, and the fact that her jacket is sometimes already covered in frost when she arrives for practice. It's no secret Sasha doesn't like going home. She doesn't appreciate people bringing it up, so they don't, but using any excuse to meet up during the winter is just another thing Zolf and Hamid have wordlessly agreed on.) 

"Of course we do, but it’s not about the practicalities," a voice from the doorway says before Zolf or Hamid can answer her. "It's about the _style."_

"Wilde!" Hamid says. “You made it!” The bulb he's screwing into the socket sparks in his hands, and dies with a dull bang, like before, making Hamid jump so hard he almost falls off the stool, and Zolf leans over to grab his arm. Hamid clings for a moment, regaining his balance. 

"Okay?" Zolf asks him. 

“Fine!" Hamid squeaks. He smiles brightly, and lets Zolf help him off the stool. He’s warm. 

Sometimes, Zolf wishes that he and Hamid weren’t as good at not talking as they are. Or maybe that’s just in his head, and Hamid hasn’t noticed the elephant in the room at all. He can’t decide what would be worse, Hamid knowing or Hamid _not_ knowing, so instead of thinking about it he turns to Wilde and says, “You’re late.” 

“Mr Smith, I’m flattered that you think I’m able to control the buses, but unfortunately, I’m not,” Wilde replies, and Zolf rolls his eyes. 

“Where are Grizzop ‘nd Azu?” Sasha asks. 

“Still downstairs, I believe,” he says, nodding towards Hamid. “Got waylaid by those twins of yours.” 

“I’ll go get ‘em,” Sasha says, and slips away without a sound. Zolf takes the opportunity presented by the sudden silence to study Wilde. Anyone who thinks Hamid is the odd one out of the band needs only take a look at Wilde to realise that, in fact, he’s just part of a different set. Wilde’s not dressed up, today, though, just wearing an obnoxiously patterned purple shirt that clashes perfectly with Hamid’s yellow one. But it’s not his clothes Zolf is looking at. Wilde looks tired. Wilde _always_ looks tired. 

Zolf doesn’t say anything, but Wilde gives him a dry look. “I’m fine,” he says. 

Zolf nods innocently. “Of course you are.” 

“Oscar—” Hamid begins, then stops.

They don’t actually need a manager. The only gigs they play are open mic nights down at Bi Ming Gusset’s, and they haven’t even decided on a _name,_ for gods’ sake. But they’ve known Wilde ever since music in secondary school, when they’d get into fights over nothing in the practice rooms during free lessons. Their rivalry was the only thing that had got Zolf through school some days. Wilde is one of them, but they’d all known he wouldn’t have accepted anything that felt like pity, so band manager it was. To be fair, maybe they don’t actually need a manager but it definitely hasn’t hurt. Now Zolf doesn’t have to talk to people. 

“So!” Wilde says, clapping his hands together cheerfully. “Ready for practice?” 

“Thought you said this was an audition,” Zolf says. Wilde waves a hand, and begins to speak when he’s interrupted. 

The sound that comes from downstairs is like something out of a nightmare. It’s followed by cackles of laughter, mixed with the sound of someone slapping their palms violently on a table. 

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Hamid squeaks.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Wilde says, and turns to look at them both. “I suppose now’s a good time to mention that Grizzop is intent on auditioning with a kazoo he nicked from his friend last week. He’s done nothing else but send me horrendous snapchats at three in the morning playing Mr Brightside since he got it. Please free me from this hell.” 

Zolf’s already laughing. Hamid looks so distressed, and his expression is only making Zolf laugh harder, and it’s enough to make him sink to the floor. It’s only a moment before Wilde joins him, and Hamid’s face crumples into a smile. 

_This is good,_ Zolf thinks, as he lies on the dusty floor of Hamid’s attic and tries to catch his breath. _This is good. Everything's worth it for this._

—— 

It’s a little while before they all gather upstairs, and then Hamid insists on ordering pizza because when Wilde mentions not having eaten that day, Sasha high fives him in solidarity. Azu’s on Hamid’s side, distressed, Grizzop’s certainly not complaining, Zolf doesn’t want to admit that he also hasn’t eaten anything yet today. 

They’re all just _fine._ Hamid orders pizza. 

—— 

“So do you actually want us to audition?” Grizzop asks, chewing on one of Azu’s crusts absently. “Or did I bring the kazoo for nothing?” 

“Wasn’t for nothing, mate,” Sasha tells him, “It was a bloody experience.” 

“No, you don’t actually have to audition,” Hamid says. “In fact, I’m begging you not to.” 

“Don’t you appreciate my talents, Hamid?” 

“Not with the _kazoo,_ Grizzop!” 

“Not much point auditioning, really,” Zolf says. “You’re in. But we can play something.” 

Azu pushes her plate of crusts onto Grizzop’s lap properly and picks up her bass. It’s dark pink, glittery when the light shines on it right. Zolf’s always admired it. He’s always admired Azu. He hasn’t known her for as long as he’s known Hamid and Sasha, she’d transferred from another school half way through the school year a couple of years ago. It had taken less than a week for her to be adopted into their little group, though, winning everyone’s affections with ridiculous speed. It was through her that Grizzop had joined them when they’d been looking for a drummer. 

In school, Sasha had always spent a lot of time in detention, for one thing or another. Often it was for not doing her homework, and Zolf had spent so long biting back words when Sasha was reprimanded by yet another teacher that he was surprised he hadn’t gone completely insane. Grizzop was also often in detention, normally for talking back to teachers, and unsurprisingly but slightly terrifyingly he got on with Sasha like a house on fire. Zolf and Hamid would wait for Sasha outside so they could walk home together, and they met Azu because she was waiting for Grizzop, for the same reason. They all walked home the same direction. 

And now they’re here, eating pizza in Hamid’s attic, as the rain comes down in waves outside. 

Azu plays a chord, winces, and reaches for Zolf’s tuner. Hamid slips off his seat and pads across the floor to cuddle up next to Zolf. Zolf looks at him curiously. “Okay?” he asks. 

“It’s cold,” Hamid excuses himself, looking anywhere but Zolf. _I love you,_ Zolf wants to say, but Hamid clearly doesn’t want to address it, so he doesn’t say a word. He just adjusts his guitar so Hamid has space. They’re ever so good at _not talking._

“Ready?” he asks Azu. 

She strums again, and nods. 

Music is easier than talking, sometimes. Most times. Zolf scribbles words on receipts or in his phone notes app, and eventually he’s sitting here feeling them reflected back to him through Azu’s bass, Sasha’s keyboard. 

Hamid’s voice describes Zolf’s soul while Grizzop’s drums mark time, a frantic pace that sets everyone’s feet tapping. _“We’ll outlast, fake our deaths,”_ Hamid sings, _“Watch the waves come in, watch them choke.”_

It’s an old one, the one Zolf wrote after the first time they’d all played together. He’d scribbled the words on a scrap of paper in Hamid’s hallway as he was leaving because his phone was dead and he didn’t trust himself not to forget it. Hamid had asked to see it, and Zolf had let him.

“Can you text this to me when you get home?” Hamid had asked as he’d passed the scrap back to Zolf.

“Yeah? Can I ask why?” 

Hamid made a vague gesture. “It’s a song.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Zolf had said. “But it’s just… rambling, right now. Words that sound nice.” 

Hamid had just given him a look that was so achingly sincere Zolf had almost looked away. “I meant— I’d like to sing it? If that’s okay.” 

It had been a long day, hell, a long week, and Hamid looked tired, disheveled in the way he only ever was when he’d been so engrossed in something he’d forgotten to be self-conscious. The lights outside cut his face into a study of shadows, and gods, Zolf had loved him even back then. “Of course,” he’d said quietly. “I’ll text you when I get my phone charged again.” 

Hamid had broken into a smile, and hugged Zolf right there in the hallway. Maybe it was Zolf’s imagination, but he didn’t think Hamid had wanted to let go. (Maybe Zolf hadn’t wanted to either.) 

Wilde had been lying back on the floorboards, ankles crossed gracefully, but he pushed himself upright to join Hamid for the next lines. _“If the light at the end of the tunnel is a house fire,”_ they sing together, and everyone looks at Wilde because he doesn’t sing often, not where people can hear him. Wilde just shrugs. Hamid beams at him. _“Then I’ll scream your name into the smoke.”_

The song slips into chaos gradually. Sasha comes and sits between Azu and Wilde, Hamid’s still curled against Zolf. Grizzop hops down from the drums, and ruffles Sasha’s hair as he passes. They sit together, close, but never close enough, as the lightbulb flickers above them, casting dancing shadows. This isn’t going to last forever, Zolf knows that. They all know that. But while does last, before people get busy, or move away, or grow up… He’s going to take all he can get the music, the warmth. The _family._

**Author's Note:**

> first set of lyrics are from ghost of you by my chemical romance, second set of lyrics are my own. Find me on tumblr as drowinginstarlights :D


End file.
